Amiya Wil's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

Amiya counted the days on the corkboard above her cutting table Monday morning. Eight weeks. Fifty-six days. The buyer wanted thirty full looks, sized and finished, with lookbook samples by week six. Amiya was one seamstress with one machine. She did the math on a scrap of muslin. Even working sixteen hours a day, she would finish twelve looks. She pinned the muslin to the board under a red tack and stared at it until the numbers stopped moving. She called the buyer first and asked for nothing. She would not lose the deal by flinching. Then she opened a spreadsheet and listed every woman from her recovery program who had sewn, hemmed, or run a serger in a past life. The list ran to nine names. Four of them had asked her for work in the last year. She had said no every time because she could not pay a wage and a rent at once. She closed the laptop and walked four blocks to look at the empty storefront under her studio, the one the bakery owner had been trying to lease since winter. The space had arched windows, a wide back room, and a sink that worked. The owner wanted two months up front. Amiya did not have it. She walked back upstairs, opened the placement contract, and read the advance clause she had skipped on Friday night. Thirty percent on signing. She emailed the buyer and asked for it wired by Wednesday. The buyer wrote back in an hour and said yes if Amiya signed a penalty rider. Miss the eight-week date and she owed the advance back at double. Amiya signed it and sent it before she could count the days again. The money cleared Wednesday morning. By Thursday she had keys to the storefront and a name painted on the glass in gold letters. She called the four women from her list and offered them eight weeks of work at a fair rate, with a bonus if they hit the date. Three said yes that night. The fourth came in Friday with her own shears. Amiya set up four stations along the back wall, a cutting table by the windows, and an old clock she had bought at an estate sale, its archive drawer empty, ticking against the brick. On the way home Friday she passed the solar billboard on the avenue and saw her artist's face on the screen, a lyric from the demo scrolling under it. The label had bought the slot for the month. Amiya stopped on the sidewalk and watched the words cycle. The shop had a team now. The collection had a chance. Then her phone buzzed. The buyer had moved up the lookbook shoot. She needed six finished looks photographed in twelve days, not twenty-one. Amiya read the message twice and walked faster.